Molly Takes to a Life of Crime
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly keeps breaking into Sherlock's flat. Is Sherlock driving her into a life of crime? Sherlolly


That shirt. That damned shirt! He wore it all the time and it drove her crazy. Dr. Molly Hooper was currently sitting at a lab table, chewing on a pen, and stealing surreptitious glances across said table at the vision in purple who sat opposite her. Sherlock Holmes had his head full of dark curls bent over his favorite microscope, seemingly oblivious to her attentions. The shirt in question was a tightly fitted purple one, the buttons of which strained to cover his slender but well defined torso. It also didn't help that he it was unbuttoned at the neck. Sherlock usually wore his suit coat in the lab, which tended to be noticeably cooler than the rest of St. Bart's hospital. But it was beginning to seem to Molly that, whenever he wore that particular shirt, he tended to forego the additional layer. It was almost as if he knew how attractive she found him in that damned shirt, and was enjoying playing this little game.

"Something the matter, Molly?" Sherlock looked over at her, his deep voice carrying a tone of insincere concern.

"Nothing," Molly responded as she crunched down on the pen she was chewing, felt her ears go red, and tried to concentrate on anything but Sherlock in his damned purple shirt. Not an easy task. She could almost swear that she heard him snicker as he gathered up his belongings, slipped into his outerwear, and left the lab, saying a casual goodbye. She sighed heavily and went back to her work, this time much more successfully without all the distractions.

A few days later Molly Hooper found herself, once again, making a delivery to the flat at 221B Baker Street. This time it was a damaged liver, which Sherlock said he required for some experiment or other. He wasn't home when she arrived, but this wasn't a problem as he had given her a spare key for just such eventualities. After she stowed the organ in the fridge, she made her way through the sitting room and back to the door, but stopped when she saw what was casually tossed on the couch. The shirt! Her mind was shouting _Don't! Don't! Don't_, but she decided that maybe only crazy people actually listened to the voices in their heads. She grabbed the shirt, bunched it up, and shoved it into her purse without another thought. At least he wouldn't be wearing it again!

When Molly arrived home, she retrieved the distracting shirt from her purse, and somewhat stalkerishly, put it to her nose. _This is ridiculous_, she thought. _Molly, you're acting like a schoolgirl!_ She moved toward the trashbin. Better to dispose of it immediately! But she couldn't bring herself to do it. One night wouldn't hurt! So Molly wore the shirt to bed that night and awakened in the morning feeling downright foolish. She wasted no time throwing it in her trashbin and trying to forget her stupidity.

A few days later Sherlock appeared once again in Molly's lab, again wearing the purple shirt. _Maybe he had more than one_? thought Molly hopefully.

"Good morning, Molly!" Sherlock said in a cheery voice. "Anything new?" He had already removed his Belstaff, scarf, and suit coat, and was walking around like he owned the place. Nothing unusual there. When he leaned in closer to ask, "What are you working on?", Molly noticed that now an additional button was unfastened, revealing just a tiny bit more of his well-toned chest. She could swear he was smirking. What was he playing at? That couldn't possibly be the same shirt. Could he know that she had stolen it? Of course, he could. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes! But Sherlock never said a word, just sat there, occasionally whistling (whistling, for god's sake!), and smiling at her in a way that was making her extremely uncomfortable. She, too, refused to say a word and he finally left about an hour later much to her relief.

When Molly returned to her flat that evening she made a beeline to her trashbin. As she suspected, the shirt had gone missing. Well, that was it. Life as she knew it was over. She would never be able to live this down. Sherlock had let himself in (he sure as hell knew how to pick a lock!), retrieved his shirt, and was now going to make her suffer. Smug bastard! Then Molly thought,_ in for a penny, in for a pound!_ She was already terminally embarrassed so she figured she take the whole thing a step further.

The very next time that Molly knew he was away from his flat, she let herself in again. Making her way to his bedroom, she shuffled through his closet until she once again had the particularly enticing purple shirt in her hands. Grabbing the back of the shirt at the hem, she ripped it almost up to the collar. _Take that, Mr. Smug detective!_ she thought as she replaced the shirt on its hanger and hung it up again. _You won't be wearing that again!_

The very next morning, Sherlock Holmes was already sitting in front of his favorite microscope when Molly entered the pathology lab. She almost froze when she saw that he was wearing the blasted purple shirt, only its seemed even snugger than usual, possibly due to an additional seam sewn incongruously up its back. And yet an additional button had been left undone. She was now able to get an even better view, including one of what seemed to be an elegant sufficiency of chest hair. She walked around him to get to her office, without saying a word.

"What, no greeting, Molly?"

"You seemed busy."

"Not really. I was just finishing up, actually." He rose from the lab stool and approached her. "The strangest thing. The laundry seems to have torn my favorite shirt. It's yours, too, isn't it Molly?" This time there was a definite smirk in his tone. No doubt about it. "It's a tad snugger now that Mrs. Hudson has run a seam up its back, but no worries. My suit coat will cover the damage."

"Are you losing buttons, also, Sherlock?", Molly said, trying to appear unaffected, although she thought that if he lost a couple more she would have a clear view of his navel.

"No, no. Just trying a new look."

"Gigolo?"

"Really? I was aiming more for the John Travolta look from 'Saturday Night Fever'. But I shall remember your assessment in case I ever have to go undercover as a male escort...again!"

Molly stared at the back of his sew-up shirt as he walked away from her, grabbing his other attire from the coat hook and heading out the door. Even though she knew that this was not going to end well, and that it was a real pity, actually, Molly knew in her heart of heart that the shirt must die!

It was with this thought in mind, and armed with a can of fire starter, that Molly entered the flat at 221B Baker Street just two days later. Finding the bloody shirt was turning out to be a problem. She had looked in the closet, the laundry hamper, under the bed (did he ever dust under there?), the bathroom, and under all the furniture cushions. Maybe the war over the damned shirt was finally over. She wasn't really sure whether she should claim victory or acknowledge defeat. The shirt wasn't actually the problem. She loved it! The fact that he KNEW she loved it, and him in it, and was using this knowledge to tease her, was the problem. The smirking had to end, and for it to end, the shirt had to go. Collateral damage, they called it. Molly gave her search one last effort. Not actually expecting to find anything, she opened the fridge. Eureka! There among the condiments, past-date milk, and assorted human organs (were they ripe olives or over ripe eyeballs?) Molly found what she was looking for. Grabbing it, she headed to the back garden, soaked it with the fluid, and set it ablaze. She considered saying a few words over its remains as it smoldered in the unused barbecue pit, but thought that might seem a bit strange to the neighbor who was staring intently from an overlooking window. So she said a quick and sincere goodbye and left.

Molly waited for Sherlock's next appearance with some trepidation. Now that the battle of the shirt was over, what fresh hell would he think to put her through? Her anxiety was not to last long, however, as the very next day Sherlock Holmes burst through the lab doors, seemingly not all pleased.

"Molly Hooper!"

At the sound of her full name, Molly thought she might be in some real trouble here. He was striding toward her office, but hadn't removed his coat or scarf. Perhaps he was not staying. Perhaps he intended to pummel her and beat a hasty retreat. She put her hands in the pockets of her lab coat, straightened to her full, yet still not very considerable height, and walked through her office door to meet him in the lab.

"Don't shout, Sherlock. You'll disturb someone."

"Not bloody likely in here, is it?" He surveyed the refrigerated units containing corpses and assorted and sundry body parts. Nevertheless, he continued in a quieter voice. "Mrs. Hudson has received a telephone call from one of her neighbors. According to this neighbor, some strange, and possibly mentally deranged woman, was spotted in our back garden making some sort of pagan sacrifice in the barbecue pit. Care to explain?"

"What makes you think it was me?" Molly tried to sound insulted.

"The description, of course. Strange and mentally deranged!"

Now Molly didn't have to TRY to sound insulted.

Sherlock continued, "And the fact that these were found scattered among the ashes in that barbecue pit." He held out his hand, which contained a small amount of purple buttons. Approximately the amount to be found, say, on a shirt. Sherlock then turned, as Molly tried to think of a logical explanation that would not have her either committed or arrested, or a combination of both. With his back to her he first removed his scarf. Then his Belstaff. Finally his suit coat.

Molly was speechless when she saw he was completely shirtless. He turned and walked toward her, trying to look stern,

"Sherlock, where's your shirt?"

"What a coincidence, Dr. Hooper. I was about to ask you the same thing!"

The laughter started with Molly's shoulders shaking, then she had one hand over her mouth and the other across her belly. When she finally had nerve enough to look at the detective, he, too, was laughing uncontrollably. Not his usual snicker of pretended amusement, but a deep and genuine laugh.

"This isn't exactly the reaction I was hoping for! I makes me dread the reaction complete nakedness would inspire!"

"Well, we'll have to see, won't we!"

"Yes, we will," and, still laughing, Sherlock pulled her into his arms.

It was just at that moment that Dr, John Watson opened the laboratory door - and quickly and quietly closed it again.

_Bloody hell! It's about time,_ he thought to himself. _But how am I gonna break that up!_

He reached for his mobile to text Sherlock, but got no reaction from the man currently engaged in snogging the life out of Molly Hooper in a room full of corpses. He tried again. Nothing. _He must have turned his mobile off, _ John thought, _but Sherlock has never found anything important enough to turn off his mobile!_ He stole another peek into the lab. _Until now!_ John now thought to text Molly.

UNHAND THE MAN! GIVE HIM BACK HIS SHIRT AND TELL HIM TO CHECK HIS MESSAGES - JOHN

PS. I'M COMING IN! - JOHN

Molly heard the tone on her mobile indicate an incoming message. Since they had just broken for air, she reached into her pocket, read the text, and, turning slightly red, handed it to Sherlock.

When they separated, John entered the lab, muttering, "This morgue is a lot more lively than it should be, mate." Sherlock was now checking his messages, while Molly stammered as she tried to answer John's query, "So, Molly, what's new?"

"Sorry, Molly, John and I have to leave. Graham…"

"Greg," Molly and John said in unison.

"...needs us at a crime scene." He then reached into his coat pocket, took out a gray tee shirt, and pulled it over his head. It fit even more snugly than the infamous purple shirt, stretching over the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms, and showing his taught abs. _Here we go again! _thought Molly. Sherlock finished dressing for the cold weather, and quickly moved to give her a goodbye kiss on the cheek. It was now John's turn to smirk as they headed toward the exit.

Molly was left to stand there thinking _that shirt is as bad as the other. I guess I'll have to break into his flat again. Maybe I'll be lucky and get caught!_

As if he could read her thoughts, which she truly believed he could, Sherlock pushed open the lab door, stuck in his head, smiled and gave her a lascivious wink. It was then that Molly decided to become a career criminal.


End file.
